


Dancing in the Dark

by NineMagicks



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Biting, Blood Drinking, Finding each other again, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Post-Book 2: Wayward Son, Post-Break Up, Prague, Vampire Thrall, Vampires, fantasising
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-22 13:20:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30039300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/pseuds/NineMagicks
Summary: After their disastrous trip to America and subsequent trial before the Coven, Baz Pitch is given an ultimatum: live as a mage with parts of you missing, or as one ofthem- a vampire. Surprising even himself, he makes his choice and doesn't look back, leaving behind the World of Mages to wander overseas. The aftermath is irrevocable, and change is inevitable.Five years later, Simon Snow is sent to Prague on a mission by the Coven, to investigate reports of a thriving vampire nightclub...
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 52
Kudos: 90





	1. THE DARK

**Author's Note:**

> A canon divergent fic comes to me but once a calendar year, and so here we are. I hope you like it. It contains every single one of my Wayward Son headcanons. This is a fic about vampires, rough drafts, loud music and old cities. <3 I know I've already set one fic in Prague, but here's another, because it's a lovely place. (Street names and places mentioned are real enough, but sadly the Nameless is not a real nightclub.) The title is from the Lady Gaga song _Dance in the Dark_ , because if this fic had a playlist, it would essentially be _The Fame Monster_ on a loop.
> 
> Thank you to krisrix for the initial push to write this, and annabellelux and otherworldsivelivedin for beta reading and being absolutely brilliant. <3

**BAZ**

The night comes, and I greet it like a lover.

I stand on a rooftop with the city beneath me, wind whipping my hair off my shoulders, a black smear against a darkening sky. I suppose I must look dreadfully dramatic _—_ like the poets of old, scouring melancholy horizons for their next masterwork.

If I look inwards for a moment, I can see it. Myself, standing here as a rough draft. An outline, an incomplete thought, a misplaced comma of a man _—_ even now, after all this time, I am far from the finished thing.

_Basilton Pitch, a perennial work in progress._

“Evening!” a voice calls from over my shoulder, interrupting my thoughts. “The weather’s changing. Are you coming inside?”

I lift my glass of could-be-Pimm’s, could-be-nothing to catch the first flakes of snow as they fall. The voice is right; the skies change quickly in Prague. A sunny, breezy day given way to frost.

“Yes,” I say. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

As much as life changes you, some things remain the same. I will _not_ have the hard work of my hair straightener undone by the weather.

I don’t know who I’m speaking to; I don’t turn to see. It could be anyone. Any number of names traded one night and forgotten the next. That’s the sort of business conducted at the Nameless _—_ you leave who you were at the door, and within...

...well, you’re whoever you’d rather be.

(Tonight I’m called Aleister; it was the only name left. Crowley, isn’t irony a treat?)

Beneath my feet music shakes the walls, vibrations coiling out into the alleyways below. It’s November, a touch early for winter, but the bricks and stones of Prague do as they please _—_ white dusts worn cobblestones, footsteps marking paths through the narrow streets below.

Prague is a labyrinth of spires and rooftops, red tiles and fables. There are stories idling in every corner _—_ it’s never wise to linger after dark, lest you’d like to stumble into one. Alleyways taper out like strands of a spiderweb towards Old Town Square, though a more apt metaphor might be veins _—_ yes, this is a network of crimson, leading back to the spot where I stand. The Nameless is the heartbeat of the city in the most morbid of ways.

Music thrums again, a melody without words. They’ve turned the speakers up in the above-ground bar, and I suppose it _is_ the weekend, so I can’t complain. Let the vibrations kill the remains of Friday.

I know what awaits me at the bottom of the metal staircase _—_ a mass of unfamiliar bodies (truly the best kind), dancing, alcohol and, yes, blood.

I am the vessel; Prague is the artery. All the times I wondered where my heart was, only to find it here, amidst brickwork and bones.

The wind lessens momentarily, hair settling on my shoulders. It’s longer than it used to be, though it hardly seems to grow anymore. An inch a year, if it feels like it. I tie it back during the day when I’m in the city _—_ at night I prefer it down, a whisper against skin.

“Five,” I say to the night. Each snowflake is stardust before it shatters on stone. “Five years today.”

Five years since I left that first draft of myself behind. Since I bid farewell to sparks and bronze.

Five years since I entered the safety of a snowy spiderweb, without a thought for English green.

I drain my glass and balance it on the railing, moonlight catching on the rim. My eyes trace the smudge of my lips, the only sign of me that’ll remain come morning. After the dancing’s done I’ll slip home with a stranger, fall asleep with the tang of blood on my tongue.

And tomorrow, I’ll do it again.

This is what life is, post-Watford. Post-home, post-family, post-sentence, post-everything.

This is the second draft.

_(Five years.) (I could go back now. I could...)_

For a brief moment I’m there again, standing before rows of eyes that lower in judgment. Harsh words to be typed up neatly and kept in a filing cabinet. A ruling passed down, the ultimatum I was given...

I took a path. I _made_ this choice, and I choose not to dwell.

Yet as my feet take me downwards, each step pulling me from winter to sweat and heat, I return there again. I always do, I always will.

To five years ago _—_ to a courtroom and a cold voice. The last time I saw home, though in the end, it was no home for me. For what I was.

For all I am.

* * *

***** EXCERPT FROM TRANSCRIPT 9MWS2/** **04** **.07.17** *******

[This document and all contents herein are considered highly classified material  
and must not be reproduced without express permission from the Coven.]

 **COVEN PROCEEDINGS AGAINST MAGICKAL PERSONS  
** as outlined under **REGULATION 12 SUBSECTION 29:**

_i.) “Concerning the illegal use of magickal spells  
in public whilst in the presence of Normal(s).” _

_ii.) “Concerning the wilful extermination of magickal creatures,  
including but not limited to Centaurs, Goblins, Pixies, Vampires  
and/or Werewolves, in unauthorised circumstances.” _

**TRIAL of COVEN REPRESENTATIVES vs PERSONS A, B, C.**

Herein identified under CONFIDENTIALITY EXCEPTION CLAUSE 9 as:

A.) BUNCE, PENELOPE.

B.) GRIMM-PITCH, TYRANNUS BASILTON.

C.) “SNOW, SIMON.”*

*confirmation of identity pending due to missing birth  
certificate.

***** BEGIN EXCERPT *****

**Date:** Tuesday, 4th July 2017

 **Time:** 8:09 p.m.

**CLOSING STATEMENT read by HEXAGONY SHRIKE, HIGH JUDGE AND JUSTICE.**

**THE COVEN:**...and so it is recorded that the magician Person B has been found to be a Dark Creature, having willfully hidden their identity for a period of fifteen (15) years, in contravention of the Dark Creature Transparency Act. In accordance with laws established during the Coven vs Petty case, former magicians are to be stricken from the record and officially expunged from the World of Mages. In closing, the Coven’s ruling is as follows:

The defendant, Person B, may live as one or the other _—_ Mage or Dark Creature _—_ but not both. This lenient sentence has been reached with Person B’s lineage in mind, and takes into consideration that they are a direct relative of a highly-respected former Headmistress of Watford School of Magicks. May Natasha Pitch rest in peace.

To exist within lawful magickal society, Person B will submit to a Coven-supervised de-fanging procedure, and will be permitted to resume their place within the World of Mages after the completion of 200 hours of probationary study. Magic will not be permitted during this time. This course of study will consist of extensive reflection on the role of Dark Creatures as inherent antagonists, and the expulsion of any notions of “loyalty” Person B might feel to their other self. Given the grave nature of the offences committed abroad, and owing to previous Coven proceedings involving these same three persons (see case number 8MCO1 re: The Mage, December 2015), Person B and their cohorts will be the subject of considerable scrutiny going forward.

If the Coven’s generous offer is rejected, the second option is for Person B to exist as a Dark Creature. Person B will surrender their wand, which will be snapped in accordance with Regulation 542.5: _Proper Disposal of Confiscated Magickal Artifacts._ Their name will be stricken from the record, and they will cease to be referred to in any official capacity as anything other than their designated Dark Creature status. (For example: _“the vampire from case number 9MWS2.”)_

Person B must be made aware that should they choose this second option, a compulsory exile ruling will be passed in addition to the above measures, all of which are necessary for ensuring a safe environment for decently-educated users of magic. Person B may leave the United Kingdom, and thus the World of Mages, to reside in a country of their choosing for a period of no less than five years. Person B should be aware that the Coven retains representatives at the borders of most major countries and capitals, including the United States. After leaving the United Kingdom, Person B will not be permitted to re-enter until their sentence is complete, as per the Coven’s _Most Thorough Dangerous Dark Creature Expulsion Guidelines_ , unless proper penance is shown, and the aforementioned de-fanging procedure is undertaken.

Thus concludes the sentence passed down upon Person B by the Great and Honourable Justice Shrike.

The Coven asks now for the defendant, here so named as Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch, to rise and make his decision.

***** END EXCERPT *****

* * *

**BAZ**

It was no choice at all, in the end. Something in me broke that day at Watford, worn down by pen strokes and case numbers. We had rushed there from Heathrow, fresh from the hell of America, believing there was a terrible disaster overwhelming the school.

The disaster was us. We were lured into a trap.

The Coven were waiting, their trial hastily arranged inside Mummers House, tables and lecterns laden with evidence of our careless misuses of magick. The charges were numerous, and we were to be made an immediate example of What Not To Do With Magic. Bunce’s suspiciously friendly Normal did his best to mitigate things, insisting he _really didn’t mind that we’d performed magic in front of him and took him on a magickal death trip to the Nevada desert. Seriously, it’s all good! It was educational!_

But Shepard’s pleas, and those of our blindsided families, fell on unwilling ears.

In hindsight, it’s incredible how quickly bureaucracy can operate, when its own interests usurp those of its subjects. You’ll be on the waiting list for a suspected Dead Spot visitation for months, but they’ll snap your wand in front of you without a moment’s hesitation.

(My wand. I left the pieces with Snow.)

(I wonder if he kept them.)

I stood before them, bright lights shining in my face, the familiarity of my surroundings clashing with the harsh words of the judge. It was as if a switch was pulled inside my head as I awaited their judgment, another Baz elbowing his way to the front of my mind.

 _I am the monster they say I am,_ this new me insisted. _I deserve this._

The look on my father’s face as the gavel fell. I’ll never forget.

It _is_ possible to grieve someone who is still alive, I have learnt.

(Though the jury remains lost and far-gone on whether I’m living or dead. As far as the Coven’s books and my aunt’s Christmas card list are concerned, I’m mere shadows and memory.)

He writes to me, my father _—_ on special occasions and under flimsy pretences, sending news of the family and their goings-on. Mordelia is doing well _—_ she was accepted into Watford, and only caused a _minor_ scene in the dining hall on her first day. She is of my blood, there’s no doubt.

I don’t always write back to fading, faltering Malcolm Grimm. When I do, I make sure to sign off with a fake name _—_ I’ve collected several whimsical epithets over the years. (My favourite this month is Sebastian Melmoth.) This way, I can’t upset the Coven’s snakes when they go rifling through my father’s post _—_ and he’s able to continue his self-denial for a while longer. _If it isn’t my son writing to me, then it isn’t a vampire. It’s someone I might have known in another life, if a nursery hadn’t burned. If the Mage hadn’t schemed._

Even after everything, my father prefers to pretend. He speaks to me of children’s parties and his valiant attempts to prune the shrubbery lining the front of the manor.

We never, ever speak of dark things.

(I miss his laugh the most.)

My family is being watched and supervised, after what I did. (What _we_ did.) Gallivanting off to America, illegally using magic in front of precious muggles, committing magickal credit card fraud. From the way the Coven bureaucrats went on about it, you’d think they were more upset by the latter than anything else. I wasn’t admonished at all for ripping a vampire’s face off _—_ strangely enough, they tried to congratulate me.

Oh, and there _was_ the minor matter of being unable to keep my vampirism to myself. Justice Shrike’s words made it clear the Coven were aware of what I was, but if only I could keep it in my gums, none of the _let’s make a public example of you!_ nonsense would have been necessary.

I was sighted, she said. _Seen._ Captured on the camera of a dead man, ripping pieces from the NowNext with my own teeth. (The footage was sent by an anonymous source in Las Vegas, and three guesses who that might have been.)

 _“Perhaps it could have been swept under the rug,”_ Shrike said to me in false sympathy, _“if your unhinged jaw hadn’t been_ liked _by a thousand people on YouTube.”_

It stung at the time. It _burned._

_You cannot be both.You are either, or neither._

But I find I care less, as the days pass.

That day in the courtroom, hastily erected in the halls of Mummers House...I didn’t hesitate. I chose blood over the sweet wine their judgment came wrapped in. I chose night over day.

My aunt doesn’t write. She continues to place her stake in staking those much like myself. It’s best if I never write _those_ letters, and it’s best she burns her own.

As for the rest...those recorded in the Coven’s ledgers as Persons A and C? (And D, though Wellbelove’s trial was conducted separately, and ended without sentencing once evidence of her reluctant involvement came to light.)

Bunce. Wellbelove.

_(Simon.)_

Their names come to me in echoes. It’s for the best I lost contact with them; they could never live with me like this.

_For the best, for the best._

Falling snow tangles in my hair as I descend from the rooftops of Linhartská. Five years older, five years colder _—_ a snapped wand and a mouthful of teeth.

I reach the bottom of a twisting staircase and push through the door into music and madness. (But never, never magic.)

I step from memory into now. Into the choices I’ve made, each beat and stranger’s smile leading me another step from the Baz of old.

Into the night, because the night cannot judge me.

Into the dark, where the shadows are dancing.

**SIMON**

Linhartská 22. I check the plaque on the wall against the words on my piece of paper, then check again. This is definitely the place.

It’s clever, really. Penny would call it _bleak genius_. The nightclub is hidden in plain sight _—_ it’s why it’s been around for so long, why it was never shut down by the Coven’s Czech contingent, or what passes for it in Prague.

Everybody knows about the Nameless. Every. Single. Person.

Tourists, locals, the city’s night-leaning inhabitants _—_ it’s highlighted in every guide book, circled on every map, pointed out by every walking tour group as _the only fucking place to be seen, my son._ (Alright, maybe they don’t use those _exact_ words.)

It’s so famous that it’s become part of the local vernacular, entangled with the city’s history until its very name became magic. **_Who shall remain nameless_ **is a really powerful spell, if you cast it in the city centre. (It’s a bit inconvenient, though. No matter where you’re standing, it sends you right to the nightclub’s doors.)

It _is_ clever. The Nameless has made itself indispensable, knit itself into the city’s bones over centuries _—_ it used to be an apothecary, then a wine cellar, a bookshop, and now a cocktail bar...though its true nature has stayed much the same, kept behind locked doors.

A password, a doorkeeper, a staircase into black. Tunnels and secret rooms, a maze that winds beneath the city _—_ it’s a nightclub that never sleeps, because night never ends that far underground. Customers come and go over the years, and signs hung on walls and doors might change, but _this_ side of the business never does.

The Nameless is the oldest vampire club in Prague, maybe even in Europe. Mages are its best customers.

And it’s where, tonight, I’m going to find Baz Pitch.

**BAZ**

The room I slip into smells of blood. There’s a vampire feeding on a young woman in the corner; a scattering of blooming punctures like stars are kissed into her arm. She’s a regular. I watch disinterestedly for a moment before drifting to the closest stretch of bar and ordering a glass of wine. The bar itself is built from a tree trunk, half-buried into the wall _—_ it’s well attended by faces I’ve come to recognise but not to know. ( _Never_ that.)

I linger at the edges, watching.

Dancing is a requisite at the Nameless. It doesn’t matter what song it is; all that matters is the movement. Around me are vampires _—_ teeth and eyes, swaying hips, the scent of salted blood overriding all else as the dancers spin, seeking an end to their night in another. Before too long, the entire club will be as red as my wine glass. I tip the contents down my throat, making fleeting eye contact with a few desperate faces I’ve met with before. Corners, heartbeats, thumbs pinching flesh; I want something new, both to feed on and to fuck. One throat, much the same as the next.

I wonder how many of these I’ve tasted.

I wonder which of them remember.

Centuries stretch ahead of me. (Do they?) I’ve almost accepted it. Will I spend each of my lifetimes in Prague, or will I wake one day to tedium and drift on?

For now, I’m here. For now, these dark walls still hold small thrills for me.

They keep me from thinking, _remembering._

I can’t live in the past if the night holds me hostage.

There’s a bland, handsome man at the bar, looking my way. Blue eyes half a shade lighter than those I miss so badly, but they’ll do. His skin will be soft and so _willing._ He has signed his name away to be here tonight, and it would be rude not to grant him his wish. Everything that happens at the Nameless is agreed in advance _—_ to feast or be feasted on is what separates that final spiral of stairs from the more sedate bar above ground. A frontispiece for blood and wine.

“You came down,” the man at the bar says, smiling as I lean next to him. He must be who called to me on the roof _—_ I feel disappointment curl, a sour thing in the back of my throat. _You’re not new, and I hate to repeat myself._ “I thought you’d resigned to freezing to death up there. You _did_ make a pretty picture, James. Oh, but it’s Aleister tonight?”

I smirk, licking the last of the wine from the rim of my glass, and calling for another.

“Darling,” I say, eyes already scanning the dance floor for another. I don’t bother to look at his name badge. _I need a new one; never the same neck twice, and Merlin forbid I subject myself to the same cock. I don’t want to hear their real names, don’t want to let them see me as more than an idea._ “I was a masterpiece.”

There are more vampires here than mages tonight _—_ a pity. I’ll have to actually _try,_ competing with my peers for a taste.

Every mage tastes different. My favourite ones are sweet _—_ I covet the ones who drink wine, as I do. It saves on cash at the bar.

I leave my jilted companion and wind between bodies and necks and red, moving in time with the too-loud music. I let my fangs drop, filling my mouth and pricking my lower lip.

 _This isn’t like you,_ a small part of me knows. (Clings, cries.) _Where did the last of you go?_

And the other me answers, _I am the monster they said I was._

_I deserve this._

I catch the eye of another stranger _—_ this one’s name badge says Harry, though that’s not who he is. No more than I’m Aleister. No more than I was James yesterday, and Ernest the night before that.

The stranger comes to me, a fly trapped in the web.

“What’s your name, gorgeous?” he says. His arm is free of star-shaped kisses.

_New. Brand new._

_And you don’t look at all like Simon Snow._

I raise an eyebrow, anticipating the chase. “Tell me, what’s in a name?”

**SIMON**

I step into the shadows, leaning against a wall to let a wobbly couple pass, laughing to themselves about something I can’t hear. The alleyways in this part of the city are narrow _—_ there’s barely enough room for two people to walk side by side with their heads pressed together. It’s like Prague was built by people who daydreamed of fairy tales, but never thought about how impractical it’d be to actually live in one.

I’d like to see it, the city. Maybe I’ll have time in daylight, after I’ve found Baz. (And talked to him, though I haven’t thought that far ahead.) (There’s a good chance there won’t _be_ any talking. I probably won’t be able to do much more than make gurgling sounds at him until he walks away.)

I glance up nervously as I approach the lit building that occupies the next corner; these rooftops would be a good place for the club’s vampire bouncers to sit and watch from, if they wanted to see who was coming. Maybe they’re up there right now, like a creepy gargoyle version of CCTV.

Baz has been in Prague since our trial ended five years ago. I mean, not _here_ , in the club _—_ he’d be fucking knackered after all that dancing. ( _Does_ Baz dance?) But...in the city. He came here after he left England; took a ferry across the channel by himself, caught a train in Calais and disappeared. That’s all Fiona knew, until he turned up on her radar again at the Nameless. The Coven keeps tabs on it _—_ apparently there are nightclubs like this all over Europe.

He must’ve known I’d try to find him. We were so fucked up back then by what happened with the NowNext and Anaemic Hugh Grant, and the general America situation. When he stood up in front of the Coven and told them to fuck themselves, that he was _leaving,_ I...

I didn’t go after him. I didn’t do _anything._ It felt like a betrayal, an ending and...and like a dream, to be honest. None of it was happening; I was going to wake up on the sofa in my flat in London, can of cider hanging from one hand, and none of it would be real.

But it was.

Baz left, and I couldn’t stop it. It felt like I was watching it through a screen, and he couldn’t hear me screaming.

That night after the trial, I went to Hampshire. Penny told me not to, told me to stay at Watford with her, but I needed to _see_ him. His dad whisked him away in the Jag after the judgment was passed, presumably to try and change his mind.

There was a suitcase on the front steps, clothes all over the driveway. Vera was crying, clinging onto a mop, and everyone was in a state. Daphne kept trying to pull things together, but I could tell from the look on Baz’s face that he was done.

We shouted bloody murder at each other, right there in his house.

In front of his parents, his siblings.

In front of the Victorian ( _not_ Gothic!) fucking furniture, and the too-sensible drapes.

Everything we’d been holding back since the Humdrum and the Mage, everything that happened in America…

I threw it in his face; he gave it back with interest. The Humdrum tore holes in us, and the Mage and the sun _—_ but those were the sorts of gaps that could be _repaired._ (Magic’s coming back slowly, still _—_ Penny’s dad spends his days monitoring and measuring rifts up and down the country, sending out celebratory memos when another seam knits itself shut.)

The space between me and Baz was a tear that became a chasm. There was no fixing it. Time wasn’t going to heal us.

He phoned me right before he got on the boat. I had no idea he was leaving, but maybe he was giving me a chance. _Stop me, Snow. Keep me with you._

He was trying not to cry. Said he was sorry. There was a nasty little voice in the back of my head insisting this was a good thing _—_ he’d finally be rid of me. He’d be able to put into practise everything he’d learnt in Las Vegas and be _free_.

I can’t remember if I said anything back. I don’t think I did. I remember dropping my phone when Penny’s disguising spell failed _—_ my wings popped out at the bus stop, and nearly knocked an old lady off the kerb.

I was too stubborn to contact him after that. Stubborn and fucking stupid.

I missed him. Still do.

 _Five years._ End of a sentence, though it doesn’t feel like it.

I _did_ look for him, quietly. Online, through Penny and the magickal grapevine. I kept an eye on him, and part of me hoped. Part of me _waited._ I thought he needed time, space, distance.

His dad still offers, sometimes, to tack a message onto the end of his letters...but I’m scared that the page he’d send back would be empty.

Part of me expected him to go to America _—_ be a sad king of Lost Vegas with that flashy idiot, picking off drunk tourists like chicken legs at a buffet. I thought he’d be happy there, more of who he was _—_ and as far away from me as humanly (vampirely?) possible.

But Baz never went back to America.

(Neither did Shepard. Or Agatha.) (Our sentences were much lighter than Baz’s _—_ just probation, really. And we had to cure Shepard’s demonic curse problem as a collaborative group project, which took our minds off things for that first year.)

I don’t officially work for the Coven, just freelance stuff. I’m technically still studying and drifting, pretending I’ve got a fucking clue. After the shit-show at Watford, Justice Shrike offered me a job in the Dark Artifact Retrieval department, but it didn’t seem right. Nothing did.

_“As the former Chosen One you’d be most useful. A valuable asset.”_

Really? Have you fucking _met_ me? I ruin everything and push everyone away.

_I pushed him away. Across the sea, and he didn’t come back._

_(But he could now, if he wanted. If he still wants this.)_

I don’t have access to their records. I don’t _want_ that kind of information. But Penny’s been working there as a researcher, looking for correlations between the Humdrum’s Dead Spots and the newly-mapped Quiet Zones in America. (Shepard’s helping her.) (Britain’s full of Quiet Zones _—_ they found extensive research in the Coven’s vaults, but I guess it never made its way into Watford’s highly relevant curriculum. The Highlands, the Welsh countryside, pockets of nothing between villages in the south of England...they’re everywhere.) Penny’s department wants to find a way to store long-term magic in the Quiet Zones, sort of like a battery, so mages don’t fall into the void when they’re off on their travels.

My own magic never came back. I kept my wings and tail, though Agatha’s dad was happy to help. I’m more creature than Baz ever was _—_ less of a mage than him, too. But I wasn’t exiled.

Fucking double standards, right?

They took his magic. It kills me.

_Yeah, alright, I know you’d say we match, but…_

_...I never wanted this for you._

On hard nights, Penny tells me not to worry.

_“He’ll find his way and adapt; he always was a swot. He’s probably thinking about you just as much as you’re thinking about him, Simon — you always were worryingly obsessed with each other. But you mustn’t make things worse for him. He’ll come back when he’s ready.”_

(Will he?)

Sometimes I dream of blood and smoke, and it’s like he’s there. I wake up and pretend he’s in the living room, lying on the sofa. Waiting for me to go to him and grumble about the weather. Ask him if he wants a sandwich.

That’s how I found out about the Coven’s mission, actually. It was through Penny, though she didn’t tell me on purpose.

I was on the sofa, drinking and thinking about Baz. (I’d had another bad dream.) It was late, but I could hear her on the phone in her room _—_ she was talking to Fiona Pitch, judging by the number of times she had to hold her mobile away from her ear and ask for _far fewer fucking swear words, please._

They were talking about a new assignment in Prague. My stomach turned. _The Nameless. That’s where Baz is._

They’d found him. Years late, but they got there in the end.

“ _There’s really a vampire nightclub?”_ Penny whispered. _“That sounds depressing. He’d definitely go there for the aesthetics.”_

From what I could gather, the Coven was concerned the nightclub might be getting out of hand _—_ non _-_ consenting tourists being gobbled up instead of the local mages who sign up for it, stuff like that. Bollocks they were making up to justify spying on their escaped mageling, making sure he hasn’t gone back to magic. (The local mage stuff isn’t bollocks _—_ they mingle with vampires and have their blood sucked in exchange for magickal intel.) (By all accounts it feels fucking amazing, too.) 

That was a weird thought at first, mages going clubbing with _vampires_. Isn’t it just endless trance remixes of Evanescence and Bloody Marys on tap? But it’s a mutually beneficial arrangement _—_ and when I think about it, it’s better being mages who can look after themselves than unsuspecting Normals.

I’ve done a lot of reading about vampires in the last five years. (Yeah, I know right _— me_ , reading. I even got a library card, though all the deep stuff’s on the internet. Once you get past the _Twilight_ meta, I mean.)

Vampires aren’t monsters. Well, maybe they _are,_ but no more than me. No more than the rest of us.

The Coven don’t get to banish him and keep ruining his life. They _knew_ about him _—_ they said so themselves. They could’ve stepped in to help at any time when he was a kid. I know I spent all that time following him at school, but...

...I never would’ve hurt him. I wouldn’t have given him up for that fucking joke of a trial.

( _They snapped his wand._ )

On the phone, Penny asked Fiona if she was going to “pay a visit”, but the Coven wanted someone in Prague for an entire week. Fiona didn’t have the time, with all the paperwork piled on her desk _—_ she was asking Penny because she wanted a friendly face involved. _There’s someone there we don’t want the Coven to fixate on, if you know what I mean._

Baz. Baz again. Baz, Baz, Baz, twenty-four seven.

He was there, his aunt knew about it, and in her own fucked up way she wants to protect him. File a fake report saying that everything’s fine and _nope, absolutely no conflict of interest here. Not at all._

I volunteered the next morning. I told no one. I thought they’d refuse, given our history, but I was the only one who offered, and I suppose they thought enough time had gone by. That I’d forgotten and moved on; I might not even recognise the vampire I shared a room with for seven and a half years. The boy I loved, the man I lost.

By the time Fiona and Penny found out what I’d done, it was too late to interfere. _You won’t find anything you like out there, boyo,_ read the text I got last night, from an unknown number. _Only questions without answers._

When I stepped off the plane this morning, I knew. He’s here, in this city. He’s close.

I don’t know if there’s anything that could make Baz come back to England. (Would he want to?)

It’ll be enough to see him. That’s what I tell myself. To know he’s alright.

We can’t be fixed, but if he’s fine as he is maybe I can be fine, too. Eventually.

I’m at the nightclub’s doors now. A man in a black coat looks me up and down and checks my ID. Through the windows I glimpse a normal enough scene ( _Normal_ normal) _—_ tables and chairs, clinking glasses, smiling faces.

The bloke in black welcomes me in and holds the door open. I could pass through into golden light and spiralling laughter _—_ but that’s not what I’m here for.

Instead of entering, I lean close and whisper the words I know will get me where I _really_ want to be. Where Baz is waiting. The Coven’s instructions were crystal clear.

“What’s in a name?” I ask, and the bouncer steps back, watching me carefully.

I don’t flinch.

“This way, sir,” he murmurs, checking for watchers on the street and finding none. “Are you already starred?”

The case file mentioned this. I roll up my coat sleeves and show him my unmarked forearms.

“No. This is my first time.”

“And...are you...?”

He’s hesitant; maybe he’s new, too. I swallow, digging a hand into the pocket of my jeans, brushing over two splintered bits of wood that used to be a wand. I fold my hand around a small stone.

I can’t cast, so I can’t prove I’m a mage _—_ and it’d be a lie, technically. Penny gave me a handful of enchanted stones _—_ her prototype magickal batteries that can hold a single spell. She gave me enough for the week _—_ there’s a day-long charge of **_Every time a bell rings_ ** stored in each one, to hide my wings and tail. I’ll have to find a local mage helpful enough to cast it on me, but rather an awkward conversation with a stranger than me flapping about Prague, making headlines. The stones are also just about interesting enough to get me into this vampire nightclub.

I hold one in my palm and bring it up to the bouncer’s face _—_ a shimmer of sparks reflect in his eyes. He watches, fascinated, and for a moment I see them _—_ fangs, protruding over his lower lip.

Then the shimmer dies, he clears his throat, and we’re back in business.

“ _Dobře._ Welcome to the Nameless.”

He ushers me towards a different door _—_ grey and oblivious _—_ set into the alleyway wall.

“Knock twice. Ask the question again, and leave your name at the door.”

I say thank you in terrible Czech and follow his trailing hand. He’s already turning away to talk to the next batch of new arrivals, these ones as Normal as can be.

At the darkened door, I raise my hand. I knock twice.

“What’s in a name?” I ask no one, and when that same no one asks for mine, I give it.

_Simon. I’m Simon._

The voice says: _“Not tonight.”_

I walk into shadows with only one name left in my head, the one I’ll never surrender.

_Baz._

_Baz, I’m here._

My feet tip over the edge of a stone step, and I descend.

I let the dark fold around me, like arms pulling me in.


	2. THE BLOOD

**BAZ**

I resisted for a long time, even after arriving. The blood. Years of long nights, lost to hunger.

It seemed right, in a way. Punishment piled atop punishment. As I sank deeper into Prague I kept myself apart _—_ I sought out enclaves of vampires and observed them from afar, the ways in which they mingled and melded with the city, so different from those I’d seen (and fled from) at home.

I remember that night in London, dragging Snow in pursuit of truths _—_ grey faces staring out at us from greyer corners, faces creased with time and consternation. No, the vampires in Prague aren’t trapped in such static decay _—_ it’s not the glitz and false glamour of Las Vegas either, but it’s its own sort of living. (Or _un_ living.)

After I arrived, I spent a reluctant day listening to whispers beyond walls, learning my place here. (If there was one.) It’s not exactly a haven, but the magickal creatures aren’t breaking laws merely by existing. There’s an agreement, a middle ground between us and the local mages _—_ Prague is a purgatory in which we are somewhat equal.

I found the Nameless during my second week in exile. I’d managed to secure a flat in the Žižkov neighbourhood with what little money my father had stuffed my pockets with as I left. It’s next to a tram stop, making travel around the city a simple enough affair, though these streets are an eternal delight to discover by foot.

The flat was cold before I filled it with pretty nothings. There weren’t even any curtains. I was hungry and miserable, those first lost nights, scavenging for birds in the nearest park. Afraid to be seen and too tired to be heard. I both craved and feared the attention of those who had already begun to note my arrival _—_ pale faces, though not _grey._ Not pallid, as I was.

In the end, I followed one of them. They led me to the Nameless and its darkened door set into stone, a world apart from the bright lights of its Normal facade.

It was as if the music was calling me home.

Now, five years since I first set foot on snow-kissed cobbles, I run my fingers along a stranger’s neck.

Harry, the name badge says. He’s tall _—_ a nice tan, nicer teeth. He has a dimple cut into his chin that irks me. (The last thing I want to think of when I’m feeding is the Mage.) Harry smiles, and it’s the sort rehearsed in a mirror _—_ wide, white and inviting. He says something I don’t hear _—_ or rather, I don’t listen. I’m rather taken with his carotid artery, pulsing beneath my thumb.

“I haven’t done this before,” he says, eyes reflecting my own. He doesn’t seem nervous; his accent betrays his status here in the city. English, more specifically Essex. He’s a Blood Tourist, seeking thrills he can’t be sure are real until he grasps them for himself. “I’m afraid I don’t have much in the way of intelligence.”

I resist the urge to smirk. I know what he refers to _—_ the Prague mages will come armed with gossip and magickal insights to tempt fangs into their necks. Some even trade spells they know will never work. Harry has nothing of the sort, and fortunately for him, he’s found the one vampire in Prague who isn’t trying to get anywhere besides where he already is.

I fake a smile and pretend that anything at all inside his pretty little head might be of use to me.

_Harry, do you know what I did the first time I drank from a human? It took a dozen visits until I found the courage to do more than stare, but I gave in eventually. To myself, to the blood._

It was messy, that first time. A security guard had to drag the mage away to stitch him up behind the bar. I ruined my shirt, which was a shame, because I hadn’t many to my name back then. Only what had fit into my suitcase.

I won’t make a mess tonight; not unless Harry asks for it. (Some of them do _—_ they want the drama. You can take the mage out of the World of Mages, but…)

It’s been two years since I bit my first, and I’ve become something of a ruthless connoisseur. 

“I don’t need anything from you,” I tell him, though that’s not entirely true. I won’t die without drinking from him _—_ the Prague pigeons are well fed.

_But rather you than them. Rather this than wine and a night without company._

I’m still touching his neck. I imagine I see his pulse there, right where I want to be. He’s taller than me _—_ he’ll have to bend down to save me the indignity of standing on my tiptoes.

“Should we talk?” Harry asks. I can tell that he wants to. “This is intimate, int’it. We should get to know each other.”

I frown. My eyes flick around the room, but I can’t see another unattached mage; did Harry talk the rest of them away, before he spotted me? I already know all I need to _—_ he has a pulse, a heartbeat, _the red._

(Didn’t Snow go on a mission for the Mage once, to salvage Essex slang?)

( _Don’t_ think about Snow.)

“Let’s not talk,” I reply, pressing my thumb into the underside of his jaw. I might bite him there, first. That should shut him up.

Harry seems determined to soldier on into the mire of familiarity. “Come on, babes _—_ just because we can’t swap monster stories, it doesn’t mean we can’t chat _._ ”

I sigh inwardly, turning my eyes on him and relaxing my expression. I let starshine rise to the surface, knowing full well what he’s seeing as his own face turns slack _—_ sparkle, silver, the irresistible glamour of a lie. I feel my irritation subside as he eases into it, lips closing and eyes lidded.

Of the things I learnt in Las Vegas, two have proved practical in my afterlife: first, though it pains me to think of Lamb as anything more than a turncoat, it really _is_ nice to enjoy a plate of _vepřo knedlo zelo_ without chewing through my bottom lip.

And second...I had thought it a mere party trick, when Lamb had looked at me the first time we met, his eyes sparkling. I was convinced I was seeing what I’d always wanted to see _—_ a vampire, both powerful and successful, who wished to help _me_. The next day at the Thai restaurant, the way he’d coaxed my true name from me...it felt like being pulled under the waves, until it didn’t.

It took moving to Prague and watching others at the Nameless to realise it wasn’t a trick exclusive to Lamb, but a _skill_ _—_ power, latent within that darker half of me.

The thrall.

I suspect it was my magic that helped me to resist Lamb’s lacklustre attempts. I’ve no doubt that’s what he was doing. I have a natural advantage over the other vampires when I apply my own thrall at the club _—_ whatever magic still moves in me makes it sharper, _keener_ than the rest. I could have every single mage in here on their knees and at my beck and call within moments, if I wished for it.

Not all vampires can do it. Even mine falters on occasion, if my heart isn’t in it. If I’m not completely focused on what I want.

I look at Harry, slowly stirring from my initial minute push. His mouth opens and he begins to speak again. I know what I want, clear as day: the sweet solace of his silence.

 _If you don’t shut up,_ I think, fixing my eyes on his throat, _I won’t be able to enjoy the inches you have on me, or what I’m positive is a stellar set of abs straining against that shirt._

I lick my lips, but he still doesn’t take the hint. The man cannot be silenced.

“I can show you, if you need proof,” he’s saying. His eyes are lucid again. They’re a muddy brown. “Have you ever seen real magic before? It’s probably against the rules of this place, but I’ve literally got my wand, so I could _—_ ”

“No,” I interrupt. “Don’t. Stop talking.”

_Magic is the last thing I wish to see._

I let him slide his hands around my hips as the music changes, pulling me close.

“I saw you at the bar with that other bloke,” he’s saying, a rumble in my ear. “I was well jel.”

I groan, and not in a sensual way. I meet his gaze again, enjoying how his words die in the air between us. (It really is nice that he’s taller _—_ it makes things easier. Further away from what I once knew.) 

_Yes, that’s it,_ I think, as he leans in to kiss me. I focus on what I want _—_ the dreaminess of a quiet, beautiful, thoughtless man who doesn't know me _—_ and _push_.

Harry finally shuts up, thank Merlin, and I can enjoy the rasp of stubble as his cheek scratches mine, his arms tightening around me, my fingers pressing the skin on his neck. I break the kiss and find a freckle to fixate on. (Snow had a mole in the same place.) (I’ll bite Harry there. _X marks the spot._ )

It’s impolite to thrall without notice, but mages here come for the full vampiric experience _—_ once downstairs and tucked away from Normal eyes, they sign a frighteningly comprehensive set of terms and conditions.

I only gave Harry the tiniest push to hush him _—_ these kisses he trails along my neck are all his own. I never use it for sex or biting or the chase. (I hardly need to. Have you _looked_ at me?)

“You’re so fit,” Harry murmurs, as I scowl over his shoulder. How incorrigible is this man, to break a vampire’s thrall so easily? Is there some sort of dark magic in Essex the Mage was secretly trying to harness? “Can we be alone for the next part?”

 _The next part._ I let the promise of it override my ongoing annoyance with his mouth. (At least he’s putting it to better use now. I let him steal another kiss because it decreases the chances of him talking through it.)

“Later. The first bite must be in sight of the bar — to ensure rules are being followed, you understand.”

“Oh, yeah. Please. I'm ready, Aleister.”

He’ll thank me later. They all do. Wherever we go, however it ends, with hands in hair and clothes on the floor. He’ll be star-kissed and drunk with the rush of it, and once we're in his hotel room, I’ll let him drape me over a piece of furniture of his choosing. That’s always fun.

I'm anticipating it, the taste — mages vary in flavour, the tang of magic differing from neck to neck, but the underlying current is the same. Hot, heady. Red on my tongue, red down my throat. It warms me like no other, like no arms ever have or ever could.

(Except _his_ , I suppose. His arms used to warm me.)

In the beginning, after my first exploratory bites, I would lie to myself. _It's only sustenance_ , I'd think. _A way of coping_.

But it isn't. I like the taste.

_I deserve this._

My lips kiss skin, a wavering trail to reach that delectable freckle. He continues to talk and I don't listen — I drag my tongue over my target, eyes flicking up to see who else on the dance floor might be watching. There’s a cloying chemical taste to Harry that I try to ignore. (Is that _fake tan?_ )

Teeth, dark, the red.

Before I break skin, I let myself indulge, for a moment, in my most private fantasy. The painful sort, the thoughts I fall asleep desperately chasing away.

_Harry isn't taller than me. Harry isn't Harry. Harry's a few inches beneath me — three, four in the midst of an argument — and the freckle is no freckle, but a mole. His skin is naturally golden, and the hair between my fingers waves and curls. If I pull back, I won't see brown eyes — only endless blue._

I'm thinking of Simon, always Simon, as I let my fangs graze a stranger's throat. I imagine he's here with me tonight, in my arms, holding me close. I fancy I even see him, stranded on the dance floor like a shipwreck survivor battling the waves. He's there, watching me wind myself around another, one hand coming up to cover his mouth. There are years I haven't known on his face and in his eyes; I'll taste them all as I bite down into bronze and gold. He'll move to me across the sea of bodies and he'll say —

“Baz? Baz, it's me.”

I freeze, pushing back from Harry as the vision before me fails to fade, and the figure materialising from the dark doesn't shift into a stranger. Bronze stays bronze, blue in the red.

_Simon. Simon Snow, here in Prague._

_Snow on the rooftops, Snow in the dark._

I stare, mouth open and filled with fangs, as my ex-boyfriend is jostled by dancers. He sways with the current, and he doesn't take his eyes off my face.

_Oh. Oh no._

_Not here. Not you._

“Is there a problem, love?” Harry asks as I shove him away, switching on the full weight of my thrall as I burn him with a look.

_“Go away. Forget my name. Do not speak to me for the rest of the night.”_

Harry doesn't fight the small magic with chatter, this time: he turns and goes, walking stiffly to the bar, already eyeing up other offerings.

When I look back, it's to see Snow still standing there, watching me. His eyes drop, taking in the sight of my silk shirt and finery. How I've dressed for the night's lurid affections.

“Baz,” he says again, faltering as he reads my name badge. (His own says Colin, which _almost_ ruins the moment.) “It’s...it _is_ you. I'm…”

_Oh, Simon._

_As if there could ever be a world or a lifetime in which I don't know exactly who you are._

I try to suck my fangs back into my gums, but they won't come. He's staring at them, dragging a finger along his own teeth. He looks horrified. He's seen them before, of course, but not like this — he has never seen _me_ like _this_. 

I can smell him; my stomach growls and I want to die. (Again.) Hot, buttery, sweet. He’s still metres away but it's as if I have my face pressed to his neck, breathing in the heat of his blood.

 _No,_ I think. _No. Not you._

He takes a step towards me, one hand held out for mine, but I don't reciprocate. Instead of doing anything approaching sensible, I turn on my heels and do what I did five years ago. The only thing I _can_ do. The only thing that might bring me peace.

I take a final look at Simon Snow. I drink him in. I let myself feel it, all of it.

Then I turn to face the darkness, and I run.

**SIMON**

First thought when I step inside the nightclub: I didn’t expect vampires to be so into strobe lights.

My second thought, once I’ve made my way through a maze of corridors and pushed through the doors: _And they fucking love paperwork, too._ The terms and conditions they have you sign before entering...I tell you what, it’d make an Apple warranty writer cry.

To be fair, all of the dead (ha!) important stuff was on the first page, in a larger font than the rest. (Prague vampires like their serifs.) The bloke waiting for me at the bottom of the steps was very professional as he went through it with me, making sure I understood.

By signing my name away and entering the Nameless, I hereby state that I’m open for anything up to and including: biting (of both the sexy and hunger-related varieties), blood drinking, shit loads of alcohol, being thralled, and other forms of consensual blood play listed under the heading _miscellaneous oozings_. There were no surprises — the Coven included all of it in the case file, so I signed on the dotted line and kept my face blank. (Not a problem for me, really.)

The bloke welcomed me to the Nameless, and reminded me that what happens within doesn’t need to be shared with my Normal friends, should I have any. (Also not a problem. Although Shepard would probably want to write a fucking thesis on it.) Then he reached up and picked a name badge off the wall behind him. Whoever wrote the names had done some lovely calligraphy in sparkly marker pen. (Vampires love small print and stationery, in that order.)

“Do I _look_ like a Colin?” I asked, to which he shrugged. “I can see a Matt up there. I’m definitely more of a Matt, don’t you think?”

He flashed me a grin I would politely describe as toothy. “Enjoy your night, Colin.”

I watched him settle into an out of place armchair to protect the name badges from whoever might come after me. I sighed and started off into the black again, catching his last words on the air as they came drifting over my head.

_“Forget who you used to be.”_

Small print, stationery, being fucking creepy. Vampires: a beginner’s guide.

I thought about that — who I used to be, whoever the fuck Colin is — as I followed the long corridor to nowhere, the occasional twist and turn leading me further from the world above. What was down here before the Nameless arrived? Were the tunnels shaped from Prague’s catacombs?

That’d be ironic. Baz ending up here, after all those nights spent beneath Watford, chasing rats.

I did basic research on the Nameless before catching my flight. There’s nowhere like it in London, though the Coven’s grip on the dark creature communities has been lessening, this year and the last. After Baz was exiled, there was a bit of an uprising _—_ a surge for proper rights from the creature communities. It’s sad that that's what it took, really _—_ the mages turning on one of their own. It’s still a work in progress; Mitali Bunce is drafting regulations, but it’s hard to get anything past the High Justices. They’re even talking about letting more magickal creatures into Watford next term. (They’re also apparently opening some sort of day centre down in Brighton? A place for creatures to study magickal history and their own powers, in a safer environment.)

It’s mostly a fantasy for now, but I don’t know. Even _talking_ about it might be progress.

The Coven sent me here to keep an eye on Baz, but I’m sure they’d love to know how Prague keeps its monstrous wheels turning without incident. Maybe Fiona and company are worried Blood Tourism might become the next big thing in London?

Not that I’m here for that. The biting. (Apparently there’s a lot of shagging, too.) (Small print, stationery, being creepy, _sex with teeth._ )

I just want to see Baz and make sure he’s alright. Submit a lazy report and put the worries to bed, at least for a bit.

I take a deep breath as I push through the doors, wondering if I’ve missed the evening rush of arrivals. The corridor behind me echoes with emptiness, and I half expect another corridor to unwind before me, but no _—_ it opens on a barrage of loud music and flashing lights. Under the strobes I catch sight of glinting eyes, glass, the curve of a silhouette...the Nameless, though it feels like less of a nightclub and more of a Nine Inch Nails music video.

I stand at the edge of the dance floor and watch.

_I’m here. I’m in. I faked it, like I’ve been faking for most of my life._

Now comes the hard part, I suppose. The searching. I look for grey, the soft edges I know well in the depths of so much sharp. I follow the curve of the dance floor, watching magickal creatures get as close to sex with clothes on as they possibly can. I suppose we can add dancing to the list of things vampires like, then?

They’re annoyingly fit, every last one of them _—_ angular, more in focus than those they’re dancing with. These mages are flirting with a different sort of magic tonight. The terms and condition say we’re (they’re) not allowed to cast, but the _feel_ of their magic clings to the air, like a stubborn smudge that won’t come out in the wash.

I close my fingers around the stones in my pocket, the bits of broken wand. Will Penny’s borrowed spells mask my Normalness? I still don’t really know if that’s what I am. I don’t suppose there are many blokes strolling around with wings and tails, doing the weekly shop at Sainsbury’s.

I try not to worry. If I do smell like a Normal, there’s nothing to be done about it now _—_ all the Lynx Africa in the world couldn’t save me.

I move through the crowd, heading towards a bar built into the far wall. There’s a vampire serving drinks _—_ I wonder if he has to take a different name every night, too. I’m thinking alcohol is a good place to start, to build up my courage _—_ I doubt they do cider here, but anything would take the edge off. Maybe it’ll help me to blend in; I might even get talking to one of the Gyrating Cullens, see if Baz’s description rings any bells. _Tall, frowny, handsome. Oh wait, that’s all of you._

I’m halfway to the bar, elbowing my way past a mage as she bares her throat to a vampire in a snappy suit. (I look away. Veins seem a bit personal.)

And that’s when I see him, wrapped up in a stranger on my left. Moving to the music in a mechanical way, as if his heart isn’t quite in it.

Baz.

I’d know him anywhere, in any life. In the halls at Watford, our room in Mummers House. On the beach in California, cursing the sun. Here in Prague, at the end of the world.

He’s taller. No, that’s silly _—_ he just _looks_ taller, standing a little straighter than he used to. He’s also _really_ fucking close to that bloke. That _mage_. Toe to toe, hip to hip _—_ Baz has got his fingers in his hair, and he’s leaning in to lick his neck. I feel a burn of jealousy as Baz pulls back for a kiss, and then _—_

 _—_ a n d t h e n _—_

He’s going to bite this man. Right here, right now, in front of me. That’s what Baz _does_ ; he bites people. He _feeds._

I wait for fangs to sink into skin, but before they do, Baz looks up and sees me.

And the spell he’s casting without magic shatters.

“Baz?” I say. “Baz, it’s me.”

He’s already backing off from the mage, pushing him away. I can't hear what he says. I get a good look at him _—_ his clothes, his hair. He looks good, and maybe I wasn’t expecting him to. Maybe I thought he’d be wasting away without magic. Without me.

(Why do I feel so under-dressed? I’m wearing my best pair of jeans.) (I feel like the shabbiest thing on the vampire buffet menu.)

“Baz,” I try again. “It’s...it _is_ you. I'm…”

I’m what, happy to see you? Surprised to see you interested in a bloke who, while objectively fit, is wearing a bucket load of fake tan and took his style inspiration from every Steps video mashed into one?

Baz doesn’t wait to hear the end of my sentence. He turns and runs towards a metal door next to the bar, marked FIRE ESCAPE. ( _Push bar to open. Push bar to get your vampire back._ )

I watch him go. I always do.

The vampire serving drinks shouts something to him, but he doesn’t linger _—_ the door slams shut and I’m left standing on the dance floor, running the last ten seconds over in my mind, until it blurs into one inescapable image.

Baz. Fangs down, eyes wide.

Baz, _seeing_ me. Recognising me.

Baz, running away.

I squeeze the shards of his wand in my pocket, and keep my eyes on the floor as I cross to the fire escape.

I’ll follow _—_ I have to, it’s the only thing I know how to do. I spent years of my life following Baz, and I can’t stop now.

The door yields under my hands, and I see metal stairs twisting up towards an opening. The railing is dusted with snow.

I pull my coat close around me as I climb.

**BAZ**

The snow’s falling faster now _—_ it’s fine, like icing sugar pushed through a sieve.

_But there’s nothing sweet about this, is there?_

I watch people pass on the streets below, heads down and feet sliding on stone. Each of them is an entire world I’ll never know. My breath mists before me; I watch it whirl once, twice, three times before dissipating. If only it were so easy to make things disappear.

My shock at seeing Snow downstairs, here in Prague and wholly out of context, has no such chance of evaporating. I breathe in the threat of winter and listen as the stairs behind me creak and clang. I know he’s there _—_ watching me, as he did for so many years.

“Why are you here?”

I ask before he has chance to calibrate, before he can do much more than scrabble for balance on the snowy terrace tiles. (Miraculously, he manages not to trip over himself. That’s a first.) I watch him wince as his hands grab at the icy railing _—_ to me, it feels no colder than anything else. No colder than my own skin.

I wait for him to berate me, to call me a monster. Instead, Snow turns that saddest shade of blue on me and says, “I missed you.”

Oh, the ache. The sting of being missed, and missing.

_I missed you too._

I briefly consider flinging myself off the roof, in order to avoid any further heartbreaking revelations Snow might have brought across the Channel with him. Truth like weapons, whipping me raw. It wouldn’t be the most dramatic tragedy we’ve indulged in together _—_ I doubt he’s forgotten the small matter of the forest fire any more than I have.

I allow myself one small, selfish look. He’s here, looking out over the city, white tangled in his hair. I spy lines at the edges of his eyes that weren’t there before, and I’m glad for it. _I hope there was laughter for you, Simon Snow. I hope you’ve been happy._

Here I stand, wondering what he sees when he looks at me. Only fangs? A creature whose nights lately have been spent with blood on his lips, and the past on his mind.

“Five years,” he says quietly, turning to face me so I’ve no choice but to turn away. “It’s been five years, Baz. The sentence is done — it ended in July. You can come home.”

I’m not sure what hurts more — the sudden, intrusive memory of country lanes and Daphne’s Sunday dinner, or the repeated use of my name. My _old_ name, alive again on his lips.

“Home,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. _Curse you, Snow. I didn’t come here to feel._ “That’s a funny thought, isn’t it?”

We let the silence drift between us, like something familiar you’d rather not interrupt. Safe ground for us to wallow in; to speak next is to build a bridge that might not carry our weight.

_Careful. I don’t know if I can fall much further._

“You were going to bite him,” Snow says, fingers twisting on the railing. I want to ask where his gloves are, but I already know it’s a lost cause. He has always dressed as if he watches the weather forecast, and then does the exact opposite of what’s suggested, simply to be obtuse. Half a decade without me nagging him hasn’t changed anything. “You were going to eat that bloke.”

I scoff. “He was hardly a Kit Kat bar, Snow —” ( _Snow._ ) “— and I can assure you, he dotted his _i_ s on the same paperwork you signed upon entry. He knew what he was in for — I was simply having a taste. Lamb was right about that, you know. There’s no need to kill them — it can even be a pleasure.”

I glance at his neck. I’d bite him just _there_ — lick the wound, while he pours salt in mine.

He flinches at the name I utter so casually. Had I expected him to forget? “Yeah. The London vampires already knew. Bit ignorant of us to expect them not to, right? Nicodemus has got some sort of schedule going. Rules of best practice, and all that. It’s still a mess, and they fuck up, but...it’s working.” He stops, and I almost hope he’s done with me. Then he asks, “Is this working for _you_ , Baz?”

I throw venom at him, he flings fire in return. This has ever been the way between us.

“I wasn’t going to _kill_ the man, Snow. I was merely taking a mouthful. Making an Essex man’s wildest dreams come true.”

“And then what were you going to do?” Snow asks. He’s sulking, withdrawing into himself.

_What do you want me to say, that I was going to leave with him? Endure the torrent of Harry’s interminable consonants and vowels to forget who I am for the night?_

In the old days, an explosion would have been imminent. Snow has that look to him, a slow simmering fury. Smoke before the fire. He doesn’t go off anymore; he hasn’t for years.

But I can smell it there in him _—_ latent, sleeping. Like a dragon stirring from slumber.

_Magic’s in your blood, Snow. I mean that quite literally, and the scent of it is suffocating._

“I would have done whatever I liked,” I answer eventually. (Evenly. Honestly.) “It’s hardly any of _your_ concern.”

I don’t sleep with every mage I meet at the Nameless. It’s not as though there’s a contractual requirement.

But I like it, not being alone. Becoming Aleister, James, Ernest. My other names disrupt the tedium of that other, older one. The fool I left behind.

_Like you, Snow. I left you behind, too._

_And yet here you are — my own personal haunting._

My response is not what he was wanting to hear. He bites his lip, and I can only guess he’s also biting down a clumsy retort.

“Have you come here to judge me?” I sneer. “Or to serve as a calendar? I know very well how many years it’s been.” I brush snow off my shoulders and wait for him to formulate a thought.

He says nothing.

I needle, twisting the knife in further.

“You waste your breath in coming here. You’ve also wasted the money of whomever paid for your plane ticket — we both know you couldn’t navigate the British Airways website by yourself.”

The rebuke stings; I see the words as they pinch him, his shoulders slumping. I feel his eyes on me and then he’s turning, staring at the staircase that will lead him back down into the ether.

He’s already planning an escape. Five years, and this is what remains.

This is what’s left when we’re done.

I feel his baleful gaze turn upon me again. If he calls me Baz, I’m going to scream.

I’m going to break.

“The Coven’s watching.” His voice is cold, serious. “They sent me here, and you should be glad it’s me and not your aunt — so go on, get your jabs in while you can. Throw your punches. I’m so fucking stupid _—_ I thought…”

He falters. It’s a prime opportunity to leer at the sheer ridiculousness of Simon Snow _thinking_ , but I don’t. I wait for the parry, the thrust of steeled words.

It doesn’t come.

“...I don’t know what I thought. If it was me who came to warn you, maybe...well. Doesn’t matter, does it?”

He folds whatever he had hoped to say back into himself, and leans against the railing, blocking out the city.

I should say something. Reach for him, apologise.

I don’t. I _can’t._

“They know you’re here, so be careful. If you’re using magic —”

“Magic?” I spit, finding the word bitter. “No. Never again.”

Although I _am_ using it, aren’t I? It leaks into my thrall. Perhaps one of the Blood Tourists sensed it and sent an urgent email to Hexagony Shrike. Or perhaps one of the spurned vampires I’ve bested assumed the worst of me. I’m no celebrity in these parts; from what I’ve gathered through the local magickal creature community, the Coven did as well as they could to contain rumours of a hybrid vampire-mage, cut loose from their gaze.

But word might get around, if the name Pitch is uttered too often.

_Never the same name, never the same neck._

I want to ask Snow if my aunt is behind this mission of his — if she sent him here to plague me. I want to ask many things of him, but it appears our interview is to be cut short — he’s pushing away from the railing, snowflakes melting on metal in his left-behind hand prints.

I touch where his fingers were. The railing is warm.

As he leaves, I manage a futile question.

“Where are you going?”

I watch the rise and fall of his shoulders.

“Downstairs. It’ll look suspicious if I don’t dance with anyone.”

Five years and we can still go from zero to non-verbal at a moment’s notice.

I feel a burn of envy, lemon juice in a paper cut.

_Who will you dance with?_

_We only ever danced once. We were so young._

“Oh, and Baz?” he calls over his shoulder. “Your dad says hi.”

And then he’s gone.

Snow in my eyelashes, snow on my tongue.

A mix of hunger and shame tickles my throat; I grip the railing, squeezing my eyes shut. _The gavel, the jury, a splintering of wood. Blue, bronze, blood, dark, dark, dark._

Perhaps I could cast without my wand, but I don’t.

Perhaps I could find a way to be both again, but I won’t.

Snow retreats, swearing to himself as he slips, and I listen to laughter cut across the square below.

_Both or neither. What’s the difference?_

Somewhere behind me, a bell rings.

I take it as a full stop. 

I resolve to turn the page.

**SIMON**

Heat hits me as soon as I step through the fire escape.

I pull off my coat and leave it on a bar stool, making sure the ex-wand and spell stones are in my jeans’ pocket.

I stare hopelessly at the bar and try not to think about him standing up there, cold against cold. I don’t know the names of any of these drinks — I _did_ learn the Czech word for beer, so I put it to use as the bartender approaches. _“Pivo, prosím?”_

He gives me something surprisingly good in a plastic cup and refuses to let me pay, even though I’m definitely using the proper currency.

“You’re new,” he says, eyes twinkling. It’s hard to look away. “Drinks are on the house.”

What a nice bloke. Seriously, the London vampires could take a few pointers from this place. ( _Pointers._ I’m hilarious in two countries, apparently.)

I drink my beer, standing at the edge of the dance floor. Trying not to think about Baz brooding on the roof, doing his best Angel impression. I shouldn’t have come here; that much is clear. He was never going to leave this behind...and I mean, why would he? He doesn’t have to hide who he is. He can lose himself and find someone he wants. (Not me, apparently. Not anymore.)

I down my drink and ask for another. The bartender is more than obliging — he fills another cup with beer, and tells me to have a good night. I’ll stay at the Nameless long enough for them to forget I arrived, then I’ll leave. Find my hotel room and write a shitty report. Get out of Baz’s hair. _Nothing to see here, just your usual Blood Tourism — move along, bored vampire hunters._

Within ten seconds of stepping onto the dance floor, sleeves rolled up and head spinning, I’m approached by someone. It’s another vampire, peeling away from a tall, tanned bloke — wasn’t he the one who was all over Baz?

The woman smiles, eyes glittering like the bartender’s, and points to her name badge.

“Helena,” I read. (Isn’t that a My Chemical Romance song? Sounds about right.) “Hi.”

“Hi yourself.”

She’s American. Pretty. Long blonde hair, like Agatha’s before she cut it off after the trial. She’s dressed to kill, and I’m surprised she hasn’t already — to be honest, I’m not sure how she’s breathing in that corset. ( _Is_ she breathing?)

I couldn’t say what colour her eyes are. The longer I look, the more they seem to shift — from green to blue to red to _shine_.

“Will you dance with us, Colin?” she asks.

(I really wish the doorman had let me be Matt.)

“Sorry,” I say, mentally retreating to the bar. The sparkles on that side of the room didn’t seem quite so ravenous. “Looks like you’re busy.”

The bloke behind her — Harry, his badge says — looks like he’s already had one too many. He’s leaning against a pillar, head lolling back, wine spilling out of his glass. I try to ignore the two pin pricks of crimson, bright against his neck.

_I’m here. In a roomful of vampires, a living tomb of blood and magic._

_Fucking hell._

“And if one isn’t enough for me?”

Helena’s smiling and biting her lip. I can’t tell if she’s smudged her lipstick, or if that’s just Harry, dripping down her chin. I want to walk away, to find the door and take back this very stupid idea of mine. But all I can do is stare into colourless eyes and fail to resist as she takes my hand, turning my arm and tickling the crease of my elbow with a ruby fingernail.

“No stars,” she says. “We can change that. Are you sure you won’t dance?”

I feel sea sick. I feel nothing. My feet are moving, and maybe I _can_ dance after all. _With her, with the night._ Maybe I can —

“He’s with me. Let him go.”

Another hand closes around my wrist — cold, firm and achingly familiar. I look over my shoulder to see Baz there still dusted with snow, staring at Helena the Very Persistent Vampire. I expect a bit of back chat at the very least — it doesn’t take an expert to notice that there are loads of unattached vampires here tonight, eyeing the few mages with envy.

But Helena doesn’t argue. She doesn’t do or say anything to suggest she’s even heard Baz — she lets go of my arm and returns to her shadowy nook, where Harry’s waiting to launch into what must be a very boring story. (Based on the way her eyes are immediately rolling back into her head.)

“Baz,” I say, turning to face him. “I mean, Aleister. Whoever you are, just...what _was_ that?”

He looks at me. He’s more vivid than he used to be, but he’s older, too — he’s aging, despite the blood. (That’s good, right? He’s like Nicodemus.) (He’s linear, like me.)

I feel his hand let go of my wrist, and then it’s sliding over my shoulder, pulling me close. His lips press against my ear.

“She was trying to thrall you. I sent her away.”

He moves from side to side. I remember where we are and what we’re meant to be doing — I can’t dance to save my life, but it looks like I’ll have to try.

“You can thrall other vampires? Is that a thing?”

I know what the thrall is; I read those chapters in the Coven’s books. I’m off my game and distracted, thoughts flooded with the spectre of cedar and bergamot and _Baz,_ when I should be focused on getting out of here in one piece. Giving up on this mission and accepting that the past is far-gone and out of reach.

But Baz is holding me tightly, and I put an arm around his waist so I can hold on. To dear life, to whatever there might still be between us.

“It shouldn’t be, but I have a slight advantage.”

He doesn’t say what that advantage is, though I can guess. My heart hammers against my ribs.

_Magic._

_Magic sets us apart._

“Thanks,” I say, resting my forehead on his shoulder. We spin together; I see Helena getting to work on Harry’s neck, though she doesn’t seem thrilled. He’s still talking over her shoulder, waving his empty glass. “Don’t think I’m in the mood for a vampire threesome.”

Baz laughs low in his throat, and I’ve missed it. I’ve missed _him_.

“You’ll dance with me,” he whispers, my heartbeat the only thing between us. “Only me.”

“Alright,” I say back, stepping on his toes. “I’m a better dancer with a drink, though. Or at least, I can’t be any worse.”

He laughs again, pulling back to look at me. Is _this_ a thrall? Have I been trapped since we were eleven, bruising each other in school hallways?

“That we can do.” He looks at the bar, and hesitates. “It’s best you stay beside me. And don’t worry — I have no intention of biting. We can prick your arm with the back of your name badge, so the doorman mistakes it for a star.”

I look down at my freckled skin, and for a split second I imagine Baz’s mouth there, bone sinking into flesh.

“No,” I whisper, remembering a night in America. “You won’t bite me. Never would.”

He doesn’t hear; the music’s too loud. He nods towards the bar and I go with him, trailing in his wake.

“Act enamoured,” he says, and it’s as if we’re there again. In the past, on a street lit with neon and excess. “You’re in my thrall and you’d follow me anywhere.”

I taste frustrated tears in the back of my throat, but I push them down.

“I’m not pretending,” I say, loud enough for him to hear as the music lulls. He doesn’t react. _I never was._

I follow him like I used to. I watch him as I always have.

And when he turns to ask what I’d like to drink, I see his eyes are the same grey they always were. There’s no magic there; no madness, no glamour. It’s _him_.

The drinks flow and I know, I know that I’ll follow. Into the dark, across a river of red.

He lifts a glass to his lips, stained bloody with wine.

When we dance again, it’s easier. Blurry and slow.

He touches my neck, where my pulse beats a rhythm that only he knows.


End file.
